


One Hundred Twenty-Six Dollars

by MasterOfAllImagination



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Or not, also sarcasm b/c it’s basically the only kind of humor I know how to write, and lbr here modern barduil would be full of sarcastic exchanges, but probably yes, featuring landscape designer!Thranduil and Bard the Barista, yes this is the trashy coffeeshop!au you’ve all been waiting for
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-09
Updated: 2015-11-21
Packaged: 2018-03-06 20:06:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3146957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MasterOfAllImagination/pseuds/MasterOfAllImagination
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s 8am on a Monday morning at the short-staffed Laketown Coffeehouse, and Bard has absolutely no attention to spare for anything except the incessant rush of orders, much less the blonde-haired man he just spilled coffee on and who is now demanding that Bard pay his dry cleaning bill.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a long-neglected Stargate Universe wip that I really, really should have been writing instead of this piece of trash that I now present for your dubious enjoyment. That being said, it's not entirely my fault: Barduil has grabbed me around the throat, rattled me around, and thrown me in the dumpster. I'm trash. You're trash. We're all sad, sad Barduil trash, and I love it.

“Venti soy latte no whip triple espresso extra hot with two sugars, to-stay!” came Sigrid's harried cry from over at the register.

“Got it,” Bard called back, even though he certainly did  _not_  have it.  The line at the register was seven-deep, eight more lingered around the counter waiting for their order to be filled, and Alfrid hadn't shown up to work (again), leaving Bard manning the espresso machines alone in the middle of the 8am Monday rush.  He was moving as fast as his hands were able, alternating pushing his hair out of his way with pushing levers on the coffee maker and the foam and whipped cream dispensers. 

He really, really didn't get paid enough for this. 

He snatched up each receipt copy Sigrid pushed down the line for him and didn't even try to bother matching names to drinks.  When one was ready he called out the order, set it on the counter, and hoped for the best.  And when the order was to-stay, he had to emerge from behind the barista's counter and hunt down the customer in the warren of tiny wooden tables that comprised the front half of the coffee shop, repeating the name of the drink aloud and making aggressive eye contact with potential claimees until someone finally spoke up and took it.  Then he would run back to the counter to fill  _more_  orders.

He really, really,  _really_  didn't get paid enough for this.   

When he finally got to the venti triple shot to-stay, the line had, if anything, increased-- and there were more people coming through the door every minute.  Its jingling chime was beginning to get on his nerves. 

“You'd think these people had never heard of Starbucks,” Bard said in an aside to Sigrid.  His daughter looked around guiltily and then giggled-- the exact reaction he had been hoping for.  He hated to see her working such a thankless job, but she was 18 now and cars unfortunately didn't pay for themselves. 

He bused the latte to the front of the house, calling out, “Venti triple shot? No whip, soy? Espresso extra hot?” like someone calling for a lost dog.  A man looked up at around the third (increasingly frustrated) refrain of the order, and he made a beeline for him. 

The only thing he had a chance to notice about the man was the fine white-gold hair hanging straight past his shoulder blades before he stood, attempting to claim his coffee, at the exact same time Bard stepped in closer to set it down on the table in front of him.

Soymilk and espresso spilled all over the man's light grey suit and dark blue shirt.  The damn suit looked sharp enough to cut and probably cost as much as Bard’s car, and he was immensely sorry for a whole 3.5 seconds.

Until, that is, the man opened his mouth.

“Please, by all means, continue to stare agape while I stand here drenched in what was no doubt a horribly prepared beverage.  Just in case you aren’t quite intelligent enough to figure this out, I require some sort of towel.”

Bard went for the napkin dispenser, but the blonde haired man stopped him with an iron hand on his wrist.  Unused to customers touching him, Bard retreated, pulling his hand back sharply. 

“This suit was custom made by one of the best tailors in this city.  I will not further endanger any chance I have of saving it by subjecting it to the tender mercies of damp paper fibers.”

“Da--Bard!” Sigrid nearly shrieked.  Bard tore his gaze away from the inexplicable cold anger of the man in front of him to the absolute phantasmagoria that was the scene register. 

He looked from Sigrid to the customer and back in indecision for a couple precious moments, and then he folded.  This was too much to deal with.  The Master be damned, he was closing the shop. 

“Stay here,” he said to the coffee-drenched man.  He vaulted over a table on his way to the front, swiftly flipped their “open” sign around to "closed," and locked the door for good measure. 

And that was really all he remembered for the next half hour or so.  The rest of the morning’s memories were too heavily inundated under a blur of coffee orders and customers disgruntled for being (god forbid) made to wait a measly few minutes for their caffeine fix for him to recall them properly. He had thrown a kitchen rag at the man in the grey suit sometime during the rush, but he hadn't been there when Bard had finally gotten the opportunity to tear his eyes away from coffee drips and syrup pumps and scan the room. 

At approximately ten-thirty he wiped his hands on his apron, restocked the cups, and went in the back to find Sigrid. 

“Hey, dad,” she said, looking up from some soapy dishes.  “Crazy this morning, wasn't it?”

“Yes, it was.  If Alfrid had been here, it would have been manageable, but that slimy…”

“Dad.  Chill.  He probably wouldn't have been much of a help anyway; always holed up in the office like he is.”

Bard ran a hand over his face like he was trying to drag off his skin.  “I would've forced him out here kicking and screaming if he’d refused.” 

“Will the Master be mad at you for closing up this morning?”

Bard cast a glance at the front door, unlocked again but mercifully idle.  “Probably.  But seeing as Alfrid wasn't here, I technically had the authority to make the call.  He’ll blame me, but he won't be able to do anything about it.”  He picked up some of the clean dishes his daughter was putting aside and absentmindedly started drying them.  They made idle chit-chat for a while: the usual how-are-your-college-classes-going, what-do-you-want-for-dinner shtick. 

Then the bell jingled.  Bard set down the mug he’d been toweling and looked to the door. 

In walked the man from earlier, this time in a different (equally expensive-looking) suit and with the air of a victorious general surveying a battlefield.  Bard had had a lot of experience dealing with difficult customers, and this did not bode well. He had a bad feeling that this one would be… _especially_ unconciliatory.

The man stepped up to the counter and placed his hands wide on it’s surface, leaning his weight onto long, pale fingers. 

“What can I get for you?” Bard asked in his best don’t-fuck-with-the-person-preparing-your-food voice, staring at a point in space somewhere just above the man’s right ear.    

“I’m _so_ glad you asked.  For a start, I’d like a new suit.  But since I doubt you’d be able to afford one on such a paltry salary as you undoubtedly make in this miserable establishment--” and the man even had the nerve to cast a disdainful glance around him, like the ceiling and the walls had done him a _personal_ disservice, before continuing, “I will settle for the cost of my dry cleaning bill.”  To Bard’s astonishment, the man produced a slip of paper from the inner pocket of his impeccable dark grey suit jacket, and slid it forward across the counter towards him.

Bard used a single finger to turn the slip the right way around.  The total was $126. 

“You’re insane,” he declared. 

The man raised one incongruously dark eyebrow.  “Am I?”

“You really expect me to pay this,” Bard said.  Incredulity leaked from his every pore.  He couldn't decide if this man was simply arrogant or just a straight-up bastard.  Or perhaps a combination of the two. 

“Why else would I be here? I assure you it’s not for the décor.  Or the company.” 

“Forget it.”

“ _Excuse_ me?”

“Let me rephrase that in terms you’ll understand.  Get out or I’ll throw you out.”

“Where’s your manager?” the man asked, suddenly straightening and folding his lithe fingers behind his back.  Bard’s eyes followed their path. 

“He’s not here at the moment,” he said carefully. 

“Then provide me with a number through which I can contact he or she directly so I can take this matter up with whomever has the authority to fire you.”

“It was an _accident_ ,” Bard protested.  “Did you happen to notice that we were extremely busy this morning?”

“Yes.  I did.  And it is not an excuse for incompetence. Nor does it make $126 magically reappear in my bank account.” 

Bard literally threw up his hands.  “Fine! What do you want, then? An apology?  A written confession of my unforgivable sin of _clumsiness_?  Please, tell me, before another customer comes in and I’m forced to _ignore you_.”

“An apology would be an acceptable start.”

Bard slammed his hands down on the counter and leaned forward.  “I’m. Sorry.  There.  Happy?” 

The well-dressed blonde man in front of him brought his hands slowly around from behind his back and laid them on the counter not two inches in front of Bard’s fingertips. 

“Try again.  Somehow I just don’t feel like you quite… _meant_ it.”  He tipped his head ever-so-slightly to the right, as if he were examining some interesting entomological specimen. 

Bard pressed his lips together firmly, his eyes narrowing, anger fuming barely below teakettle level, and kept the man in front of him pinned by his gaze as he repeated his apology.

The blonde leaned back-- they’d gotten quite close; noses mere inches away, like snarling dogs in an alleyway-- and smirked.  If the sight of this unreasonable bastard hadn't sparked such disproportionate frustration in Bard, he might almost have been able to admire the beatific curve of his lips as he made the expression.

“Better.  Now, the contact information for your manager, if you don’t mind.”

It would be an almost karmatic justic, to give this man Alfrid’s cell number and thereby subject his good-for-nothing manager to the illogical whims of this implacable man.  He could just imagine how that conversation would go: sniveling, spineless acquiescence on Alfrid’s part, while the suited man’s deep voice blared his grainy demands through the Alfrid’s cheap burner phone's speaker. 

Unfortunately, Bard also had the experience-- and therefore the foresight-- to see how the conversation would end.  And that would be with Bard having the dry cleaner’s check docked from his next paycheck.  Which wouldn't do-- not at all.  Not with rent due in a week and Sigrid’s first semester tuition deadline coming up. 

He narrowed his eyes and did a quick recalculation.  It was a simple one: would this man's unfathomable, petty desire for reparations outweigh Bard’s stubborn refusals?

“I’m not allowed to give out that information," Bard hedged, weighing the reaction of the man before him. "You’ll have to come in again tomorrow in person and see if he’s here.” 

Oh, Bard was, in fact, perfectly allowed to give out Alfrid’s information.  (The Master encouraged it, in order to deflect calls that would otherwise be directed to him.)  But if he didn't give him Alfrid's number, then this man would be forced to come into a manager-less shop every day until his patience wore out and he finally went away. Bard would not have to pay his idiotic dry cleaner’s bill, and he’d be able to inflict some misery on this insufferable man in the process.  Now that was what he called a win-win scenario. 

“In that case, I will be here tomorrow,” the man in the suit informed him. 

Bard waited carefully until he was almost out the door before calling out a sarcastic,  “Can’t wait!”  The man, disappointingly, did not rise to the bait. As soon as he had disappeared out of view of the coffeehouse’s windows, Bard slumped onto his elbows, rubbing the bridge of his nose.  According to his calculations, he was looking at a week-- at the very least-- in which he'd have to deal with the man's daily presence in the cafe (assuming Alfrid continued his truancy) in order to wait him out.

“I am the unluckiest son of a bitch on this green earth,” he muttered.

Sigrid came out of the back room and looked around as though expecting a customer.  “Sorry, dad, did you say something?” 

“No, darling,” he replied, straightening.  “Just dealing with a difficult customer is all.” 

“Ah, okay.  Can you help me get the Italian beans down?  I’m not quite tall enough.”

“Sure.  Coming.”  Bard cast one last dark look at the door and went to help his daughter.

It was going to be a _long_ week. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Probably gonna be a two-shot, maybe a three-shot if I'm too lazy to wrap it all up concisely into just two chapters. We'll see how it goes once my classes start up again. And if you want to commiserate with me about exactly how and why Barduil has ruined your life, come find me on tumblr so we can be sad together: [ me ](http://www.cutlerbeckettt.tumblr.com)


	2. Part Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My usual Starbucks order goes something like this: "Uh, can I have... a tall... caramel macchiato?" And if I am comfortable with the barista, I'll add, "with almond milk, please." 
> 
> Please, _please_ don't expect this fic to contain any semblance of accuracy in the coffee-variety department.

After a night of decent (but too-little) sleep, Bard had almost managed to convince himself that he had dreamed the rude man with blonde hair.  
  
Bard, however, had never had that much luck.

The man returned sometime around 8:30 on Tuesday morning. One minute Bard was filling the order for an iced caramel latte with two pumps of vanilla, and the next he was looking up to see  _him_ , sitting at a round table with his back to the windows,  _staring_.  

Bard’s eyebrows contracted, unable to look away for a moment in his shock.  The man’s gaze was absolutely unnerving: he sat rigidly upright, head unmoving, hair falling perfectly around the shoulders of a very, very dark grey pinstriped suit.  He looked like he had just stepped out of a black-and-white noir film.  Bard shoved the coffee at the teenager who had ordered it, pulled the towel from his shoulder, and vigorously dried his hands, all the while maintaining furious eye contact with the man. 

"Sigrid, can you handle things up here by yourself for a minute?"

"Yeah, why?"

"Dealing with a difficult customer," he muttered.  Several patrons had to awkwardly shuffle their chairs aside to make room for Bard as he moved through the coffeehouse.  The suited man's eyes tracked him uncannily right up until he arrived at his table, serenely staring as though  _he_ were the one looking down upon Bard, and not the other way around.    

"I'm not paying you anything," Bard declared without preamble. 

"I beg to differ," the man said. 

"The manager isn't here today.  You can leave now."

"I  _can_.  But I think I will enjoy the lovely atmosphere of your fine establishment for a little while longer."

"Yesterday you insulted it."

"Yesterday I was in a considerably worse mood, which may have colored my statements in a negative light."

Bard smiled tightly.  "Fine.  Parse your words all you like.  But I’m not serving you."  He twisted around as he walked away so he could point a finger at the man.  "And neither is anyone else who works here!"

When he was safely behind the counter again, Bard chanced a look towards the window table.  The man was no longer staring, but now was sitting engrossed in his phone, smirking ever-so-slightly at whatever he was reading like a proverbial cat with its cream.

Sigrid wandered over from the register, her gaze following Bard's line of sight.  "Who's that, da?"

"I don't know and I don't care.  Don't serve him, alright?  If he asks you for anything, send him to me."

"Is he dangerous?  Should we call the Master?"

Bard chuckled ruefully, setting down the towel and looking at his daughter, the frown lines around his mouth softening.  "Unless he's got a knife hidden in that hair of his, no.  I'd say not."  Then Bard reconsidered that statement.  "You alright out here for a few more minutes on your own?"

"I'm 19.  I like to think I'm not entirely incompetent."

"Only moderately incompetent, Sigrid."  Bard smiled to take the sting out of his words.  "I'll be back in a minute."

Bard went into the back office and opened up the transaction records for the previous day on their decrepit Windows 98 computer.   _What had he ordered?_   He kneaded the bridge of his nose.  Something with... soymilk, yes.  And espresso.  He remembered the espresso.  It wasn't hard to narrow down the search within a rough three-hour window and find a credit card and a name:  _Oropherion, Thranduil._ Bard glanced surreptitiously at the empty kitchen beyond the office door as he copy-pasted the name into a Google search.  The very first result was a Wikipedia entry.  Bard sat back in his chair and clicked it, curious.  _What kind of a man has his own Wikipedia article?_

Apparently, a widely-known landscape architect.  The whole thing read like a lengthy advertisement, name-dropping cities like Dubai and Melbourne for which he'd designed extensive public parks in one sentence and then going on about this or that celebrity's home that he had done the garden for in the next.  One of Bard's eyebrows rose of its own accord.  It was a rather impressive resume for such a distasteful man.  This Thranduil Oropherion surely had hidden depths of charm and conniving, for elsewise Bard couldn't imagine him wooing clients with the nasty persona he used when dealing with lowly baristas.   

Sigrid poked her head around the door.  His hand twitched on the mouse, almost shutting the window, but he contained the guilty impulse.  Barely. 

"We've got some more customers, and I need a second pair of hands," she announced. 

Bard closed the window slowly and purposefully.  It was not against the law to be reading someone's Wikipedia article, after all.  "Coming," he said, getting up and following her out into the shop.  That Thranduil fellow was no longer sitting at his table. 

_Good_ , Bard thought firmly. 

"Hey, um, Bard? You work here, right?"

Bard glanced pointedly at the name tag pinned to his apron and then back up at the young man who was accosting him from across the counter.  "Yes." 

"Good, then; um… can I get a black coffee, black, with no sugar, and no cream?"

Beside him at the register, Sigrid had a sudden coughing fit.

"No sugar, you said?"

* * *

 The next day, Thranduil walked in almost as soon as Bard unlocked the doors-- at 7:00am-- and made a beeline for the counter. 

“Da, isn’t that--?” Sigrid began.

But Bard pushed past her and lifted the counter partition, throwing an “I’ll handle this” to his daughter as he strode out into the shop to head off Thranduil.  He blocked him in the middle of the floor with his hands on his hips.  It was so early in the morning he hadn’t yet tied his hair back or even put on his apron, so he stood there in his street clothes, hair falling over his forehead, facing a man clad to the nines in his pretentious custom “best-tailor-in-the-city” suit whose own hair seemed to defy gravity in its straight fall down Thranduil's back.  Up this close, the man had the advantaged of height, but their shoulders were just about equally broad.

"Shouldn't you be pruning bushes or something?" Bard commented, as lightly as though making conversation about the weather.

"Looks like someone's been doing his research."

“Googling your name hardly counts as ‘research.’  Don’t flatter yourself.”  Bard gave him a meaningful up-and-down look, which was actually harder than he had anticipated, seeing as Thranduil had crowded quite close.  Physical intimidation, Bard held, was a tactic used only by those possessing of a weak wit.  " It’s obvious your ego is quite large enough as it is."  He grinned.  

“As a successful freelance businessman, I have the luxury of taking as many days off as I wish.  Something you undoubtedly lack.  Speaking of, shouldn’t you be making coffee?”  The corner of Thranduil’s lip curled.  “Or _something_?” 

“This is a private establishment, and my manager won’t be in today.  Therefore, I can do-- or _not_ do-- anything I wish.  Which includes _not_ serving _you_.” 

“Curiously enough, you’re actually mistaken.”  Thranduil drew a sheaf of papers out of the inner breast pocket of his suit jacket, revealing a maroon silk lining.  He thrust them out to Bard.  Bard merely glared murder into Thranduil’s eyes, his mouth set, hands firmly at his sides. 

Thranduil let them fall and scatter at their feet.  “Those papers are copies of city regulations stating that businesses cannot deny service to anyone, for any reason.  One of those equal-treatment laws social justice advocates are so fond of nowadays.  In fact, I believe I just donated a hefty sum to one of their fundraising campaigns.  Now, will you be procuring me a coffee, or shall I have to ask the pleasant young lady watching us from behind the register to handle it in your stead?”

Bard glanced at Sigrid before he could stop himself.  Her mouth was slightly open.  He shook his head.  “No. I’ll do it.  I wouldn’t force your charming manners on anyone unwillingly.”  He nodded to the papers on the floor.  “Are you going to clean those up, or shall I?”

As answer, Thranduil brushed past him, head tilted upwards in the direction of their chalkboard menu. 

“Guess it’ll be me, then,” he muttered, bending to gather the scattered documents.  He may or may not have glanced over a few of them.  Purely out of curiosity’s sake.  Unfortunately, they all seemed legitimate.

The papers ended up in the trashcan nearest the counter with as much flourish as Bard could possibly conquer.  Thranduil was undeterred.

“I’ll have… ah, no, on second thought…. Yes.”  He stepped up to the register. 

As casually as he could, Bard moved Sigrid out of the way with a hand on her shoulder.  A small sigh of relief escaped him as she easily obliged. 

“Yes.  I’ll have a chai latte in your smallest size with almond milk at precisely 195 degrees Fahrenheit.  If you stock sugar in the raw, I’ll take one and a half.  If not, leave it unsweetened.  And add half a teaspoon of cinnamon, but do it before you steam the milk.”  As if as an afterthought, Thranduil added, “please.”  It did not come out sounding like a courtesy.  It came out sounding like a warning.  And the smile that accompanied it did nothing to dissuade that impression.

Bard had made fussier beverages before, but not many.  With a glance toward the (mercifully still) door, he rang up Thranduil’s total-- making deliberate eye contact and being careful that their fingers did not overlap when he handed over his card.  

He wandered leisurely over to the steamer.  One hovered over the lever as he briefly considered botching the job.  All it would take was a simple adjustment to scald the milk-- or maybe overbrew the chai a few extra seconds-- and the beverage would be rendered unpalatable. 

He glanced over his shoulder at Thranduil, standing just behind the pickup section of the counter, a large-screened phone held up to eye-level in one hand, his eyes narrowed and squinting at whatever it was showing him.  Bard’s gaze went unnoticed. 

With a shake of his head, Bard turned back to his work.  Never.  Never had he purposefully sabotaged a guest’s order.  It was something Alfrid would do.  It was below him, and utterly unworth the loss of pride it would incur. 

And so he spent a good ten minutes brewing the unnecessarily complex coffee while the shop itself rested in complete silence.  Sigrid resurfaced about three minutes into the process, puttering around the register with a bleach rag, ostensibly cleaning.  He knew his daughter better than that.  For every time Bard glanced at Sigrid, she threw an equally surreptitious look at Thranduil. 

He wondered if she fancied him.  That would have to be quickly nipped in the bud.

The steeping timer went off.  He combined the milk with the chai and cinnamon and slapped a lid on it-- a not-so-subtle injunction that this coffee was definitely, _most certainly not_ to-stay _._   All five fingers gripped the rim of the cup as he thrust it out to Thranduil.  A bit of coffee sloshed against the lid.  “Take it, and leave.  I don’t think those bylaws said anything about what I can and can’t do once the customer has already been served.”

Thranduil took the chai in his palm, fingers cupping upwards, their grips as far apart as the height of the cup would allow.  He dragged his free hand through his hair at his temples, pushing it back from around his face.  For a moment Bard could almost sympathize with Sigrid’s fascination-- almost.  Because the next thing Thranduil did was take a delicate sip, and say, “Disgusting."

Perhaps it wasn’t too late to upend one more coffee on Thranduil’s extraordinary suit.  Bard knew with one hundred percent certainty that it was as delicious a cup of coffee as he had ever made. “You’re  _welcome_ ,” Bard grit out.  _Bastard,_ he thought privately.

Thranduil pocketed his phone and made as if to leave.  "I will, of course, be back tomorrow," he declared. 

Through grit teeth, Bard managed, "Looking forward to it."

He left.

Sigrid ran up to him before the door even had a chance to close, obviously bursting to say something.  He stemmed her enthusiasm with a hand on her shoulder and a single upheld finger of warning.  "I saw you looking at him, darling.  First of all, he's too old for you."  Another finger joined the first.  "And second of all, he is the rudest person I have ever had the misfortune of interacting with.  Don't get your hopes up."

Sigrid laughed.  Of all things, she laughed.  There had been a time when his warnings had had serious effects on her actions.  In retrospect, that time had probably ended the day she turned thirteen and started calling herself a teenager. "I wasn't watching  _him,_ da.  I was watching him  _watch you_."

Bard dropped his hand and squinted at her the way he always did when he was trying to find out whether or not she was lying.  "What are you talking about," he said flatly.  It was not a question.  It was half demand, half frank disbelief.

"The only time he took his eyes off of you was when you turned around, and he whipped out his phone faster than any teenage girl with a text from her crush I've ever seen.  You keep telling me he's rude, right?"

"An utter ass," he corrected.

Sigrid scoffed.  "Some guys never get past the pigtail-pulling stage, da.  Trust me.  I've dealt with my fair share of the buggers."

The door jangled, and she spared him a pitying look as she assumed her position at the register, which did more to amuse than mollify Bard.

He trailed after her, playing with a dirty measuring cup.  "So you're saying I should... play along," he tried, failing to keep the chuckle out of his voice.  The sheer absurdity of the idea was more typical of Tilda than of Sigrid.

"Nope.  I'm saying you should use it to your advantage.  If he's giving you a hard time, just... give him one back."

Bard thought that was what he had been doing, but he mulled it over a bit more while he filled a sleepy-looking lawyer's simple order.  Give him a hard time.  

He let out a low  _hmmmm_ of consideration, at which his daughter glanced up, and caught his waiting gaze.

She winked.

Bard winked back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoop dere it is. I updated. I'm only planning one more chapter to wrap this thing up but it'll probably have to wait a little while until I've got a decent start on my Barduil Big Bang going. (And I'm also working on a fourth chapter for Ever/Always, so there's that too... gdi. Too many wips, too little time.)
> 
> Just wanted to say thank you for everyone who has read, reviewed, and (!!!!) even recced. You guys are amAZING.


	3. Part Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It has been nine months. Nine long, long months, but _here it is_ : the last chapter of this damned au, at long last. Perhaps now it'll stop eating away at the back of my mind.
> 
> This programming is brought to you by the alternately supportive and threatening Ias, without whom I guarantee I never would have sat my ass down to finish this. So. Thanks. ;)

On Thursday morning, Bard spent a whole five extra minutes in the bathroom, going so far as to shave a day ahead of schedule and comb his hair into a neater pony tail than usual.  

"How's this?" he asked Sigrid as she came downstairs, flicking a hand at his visage.  It took her a moment to catch on.

"Ohhh," she said, "Operation Seduction is underway, is it?"

Bard brushed a hand over his beard. It felt, despite the fresh grooming, just as prickly as usual. "Just remember that this was your idea," he warned.  "If it doesn't work, I'm holding you personally responsible."  

"It'll work."  Sigrid disappeared and then reappeared with her work purse in tow, torturing a series of squeaks out of the '70s-era staircase as she descended two at a time.  "If I can do it, so can you." She flashed him a small grin and ducked out the front door.  

Bard followed, disregarding a brief impulse to switch out his current Laketown Coffeehouse t-shirt for a grey button down in favor of pursuing Sigrid.  "Why haven't I heard about any of these boys you're supposedly gaining so much experience in seducing?"

In a tone of petulant angst universal to teenagers the world over, Sigrid whined out a long "Daaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaad" and shut the car door, eager to forestall his prodding. Bard, fighting the impulse to enter what his wife used to call "Father Mode," joined her in the driver’s seat, and coaxed the white Toyota down their driveway and into the street.  Bain and Tilda were still asleep, and would take the bus to school when it came later in the morning.  

"I'm just curious," Bard tried lightly.

He glanced at his daughter from the corner of his eye.  If she noticed, she hid it with a ten-mile stare into her phone screen.  They drove for a few miles before hitting some light traffic. It was 6:30 in the morning, and only the hungover and the minimum-wage-employed were on the streets.

Sigrid snorted at something on her phone.  Bard shrugged slightly and turned to the traffic, carefully filing away the question for a later date.  

Bard took his usual detour down a side street to avoid Main and shifted his thoughts forward to the day ahead.  Inventory ran through his mind. Mentally, he started roughly calculating the day's projected profit margins so that he could get them into a spreadsheet as quickly as possible during his break.   He checked his mirrors and signaled, pulling into the alley that lead into the coffee shop's back parking lot.

It was empty. No Alfrid, and no Master. Which, of course, provided the perfect setting upon which to begin serving Thranduil some of his own medicine. If he played his cards correctly, he could have him gone from the shop in a couple days, never having seen Alfrid and the whole spilled-coffee incident forgotten (and his bank account unchanged).

Bard parked the car and went inside, leaving Sigrid to putter around in the back while he opened up shop in the front.  He took the chairs down from the tabletops one by one, glancing out the windows at the steadily increasing morning traffic, the sounds muffled by the storefront.  If _he_ owned the coffeehouse, he would push back its opening time by half an hour-- just half an hour, mind; after all, they did their best business in the morning-- and just enjoy the quiet for a few minutes.  Sit down and drink some coffee prepared for himself instead of for a customer, with Sigrid beside him, and relax.  

He wandered back to the register and began ordering the cash drawer. The problem with that idyllic image was that he _didn't_ own the shop, nor in reality was he particularly inclined to change that. Management would take him away from his children far too often for his liking, and with their mother gone these past six years, that wasn't something he was willing to sacrifice for a half hour's silence every now and again.  

The bell jangled.  Without looking up from the register, Bard pitched his voice a bit louder than normal and drawled, “You’re an early riser.”

The current bane of his existence approached so silently that Bard jumped slightly when he replied, “Many people are awake at this hour. You, for one. I’d hardly consider it early.”

Against his will, he cast a startled glance upwards. “Were you waiting for me to open up this morning?” he deflected. “You’re our first customer of the day.” The accusatory tone he heard when he opened his mouth jolted Sigrid’s flippant _Operation Seduction_ into his head, and he winced inwardly. So far, he wasn’t having much luck on that front. But the man was _so--_

“I have not the time nor the inclination to linger this morning in the vain hope of encountering your truant manager. I have a client meeting.”

\--so _that_ , Bard thought emphatically, as if to say to the universe: _see what I have to deal with?_

“That’s unfortunate,” Bard simpered. Shaking himself, he added, “perhaps tomorrow?” with enough genuine hope that Thranduil gave him a (slight-- no more than a jarred flick of the eyes) double-take.

“Possibly,” Thranduil said slowly. He waited for a beat. Bard kept his gaze open by shoving his irritation deep into the dark place he usually only had to use when dealing with Alfrid. “Well?”

“Well what?” Bard asked.

“Shall you be taking my order in the next hour, or should I remind you of the bylaws I gave you yesterday?”

“Right,” Bard said sharply. “Right,” he said again, more calmly; “what’ll it be?”

“The strongest beverage you can brew in the shortest amount of time.”

Not a fussy and complicated order like his usual, but this was nevertheless far more challenging.  Did Thranduil--? Bard eyed him quizzically, and then moved to key in an order he thought might fit the bill.  Of _course_ Thranduil meant it as a challenge.  The man probably didn’t even need sleep, let alone extra-strong caffeine, and wouldn’t _that_ be the perfect completion of his vampiric exterior.

“I may have something for you,” Bard said.  He considered throwing in a wink, but the idea made him ill. 

Thranduil duly handed over his credit card.  It was black, ribbed with a single silver thread down its center.  Bard had never even heard of the membership level it proclaimed in embossed letters. Ostentatious, just like the rest of Thranduil, who had just stepped aside to allow the next customer (Bard hadn't heard the bell) to approach the register. 

Bard ducked his head around back to summon Sigrid before returning to his station.  “Welcome to Laketown Coffeehouse; what’s your preference this morning?” he asked in his Customer Voice.

“Can I get orders to go?”

“Of course.”

“No, I mean, like, several,” the man said.  He was wearing a suit that would have looked cheap on a mannequin.  Standing next to Thranduil, who looked like a magazine advertisement in a taupe blazer and tweed pants beautifully pulled together by a forest green shirt, the suit went from “cheap” to “ridiculous.”

Bard narrowed his eyes, and sought Sigrid in his peripheral vision.  She was holding Thranduil’s order receipt in a slack hand, warily watching the new customer. 

“Sure,” Bard repeated.  “What would you like?”

Behind the man, the early crowd was beginning to filter in, mostly women fresh off morning pilates or overachieving paralegals picking up their boss’s usual. “I need eight large coffees, and the first one is a mocha macchia—wait, no, hold on,” the man said, digging in his pocket for his phone.  He dialed a number, held up a finger to Bard and mouthed “one second,” then said to the person on the other end, “Sylvia! Hey, yeah, I’m at the place, but I forgot a couple deets.” 

A beat.  Bard made eye contact with Sigrid and nodded for her to fill Thranduil’s order and clear the way for the oncoming storm of coffee.  He dared seek out Thranduil next, and he did not have to look far.  Sigrid had truly not been lying: the man was watching him intently, and today he seemed uninterested in hiding it.  Bard channeled his question into his gaze, his head tilting just slightly: _Y_ _es?_

Like water draining, Thranduil looked away and brought his arm up.  He tapped twice at his watch. 

Instantly, Bard’s question faded into resignation.  He tuned back into the man with eight orders in time to catch the last “Okay, okay, yeah, I’ll be there in twenty, see you then,” and hear him proceed to vomit eight unique orders at Bard, who keyed them in with the efficiency of long practice.

“Here you are, sir,” he heard Sigrid say behind him.  His cheaply suited customer finished handing over his cash, stuffing the change away as he moved aside, his head buried in his wallet.  Bard watched the collision in slow motion: Thranduil, his coffee in one hand, still turned to Sigrid; and the man, directly on course for Thranduil's arm.  The result was as expected.  Coffee met expensive fabric and cheap, staining both alike, and even managing to drench the wallet. Bard was riveted.  Sigrid half-heartedly began to reach for a towel, but Thranduil didn't ask for one as he had before.

“Give me your jacket,” he told the man.  His sumptuous taupe blazer now bore a large stain all down the right side, but the bulk of the damage to the other man's cheaper suit had been to his shirt and pants. 

“What? Buddy I’m sorry, I—“

“Give me your jacket, and do not call me ‘buddy.’”

“Look, pal;--” Bard watched Thranduil’s shoulders stiffen.  He towered over the man effortlessly.  “--gimme a sec,” the man amended. He divested himself of wallet and phone, set them on the counter, and shrugged out of the garment.

Thranduil shucked his blazer and donned the new one.  Although it was in a similar shade of tan, the contrast of quality between the new jacket and the old one was laughably vast. But Thranduil did not say a word. He buttoned the middle button one-handedly, covering the worst of the coffee on his shirt, and grabbed the first of the man’s orders just as Sigrid set it on the counter.  Ignoring the man’s outraged cry, he took a sip.

“This is palateable,” he said, to no one in particular. “Tomorrow, I think I’ll have this again.”

The line of customers parted as though Thranduil were Moses as he made his way out.

“Yeah,” Bard said in response to the cheaply (half-suited) man’s open-mouthed bewilderment, “he does that.  Who’s next?”

* * *

 

True to his word, Thranduil returned the next day—albeit at the slightly more reasonable hour of 10:16—and ordered “whatever I took yesterday from the moron who ruined my jacket.”

Bard made and served him eight coffees.  To his bewilderment, the corner of Thranduil's mouth crept farther and farther up the side of his face with each cup he set on the counter.  

"Are you going to tell me which it is?" he asked good-humouredly.  Bard crossed his arms, expecting a trick. Perhaps more bylaws. Or a battalion of apprentice landscape designers storming into the shop and hauling him off to barista prison, or any other number of ideas equal in insanity to Thranduil's baffling amusement. 

"If you taste them, you’ll know."

Bard stacked them neatly in two trays, balanced the trays on top of one another, and put them in front of Thranduil, who did not pick them up or make to leave.  Unable to restrain his curiosity, Bard asked, "Aren't you going to track him down?"

"I'm sorry?"

"The man who bumped into you. For your dry cleaning bill."

"I am not a private investigator.  I had no time to discover his contact information before my client meeting, so I was forced to settle for his jacket." 

Bard eyed Sigrid in his peripheral vision, conscious of the fact that she was trying very hard not to laugh.  Not that he would mind-- he was dangerously close to mirth himself.  It was not so much any amusement inherent in their situation but rather the absurdity of it all: trading barbs over a tower of eight different coffees with a man that Bard was endeavouring, and currently failing, to charm into giving up his own pursuit of a different dry cleaning bill. 

"So," he ventured, pushing the ridiculous order towards Thranduil but not yet fully relinquishing his grasp, "what does a landscape designer do?"

Long, pale fingers tightened in a reciprocal hold. For a horrible moment, Bard imagined Thranduil giving a sudden yank and spilling the tower of coffee across both of them.  Visions of further dry cleaner's bills floated in front of his eyes.

To his immense relief, Thranduil did nothing more menacing than lean forward and answer drily, "Landscape designers design landscapes."

Bard huffed and let go of the coffee. "That wasn't a very satisfactory answer."

Thranduil plucked a cup from the topmost cardboard carrier and paused with the drink halfway to his lips, eyeing Bard over the rim.  "It wasn't a very astutely phrased question."

That was the proverbial tipping point.  Bard broke eye contact to hide a grin and a small laugh, and when he looked back Thranduil's lips were curling identically over the cup.  

"Not bad, this," he said after a moment.  

"Damning by faint praise, or just faintly praising?"

Thranduil produced a different credit card than the day before in a shade of maroon and emblazoned with the logo of what was undoubtedly a highly exclusive business credit rewards program.  "Finally," he mused, "an astutely worded question."

* * *

 

Saturday. 1:50pm.  Bard had been expecting the weekend to grant him a reprieve from Thranduil, but this was not to be.  

"Are you the manager of this establishment?"

Bard was so shocked by the thought that he choked on his own unbidden laughter. "What gave you that idea?"

"I have wasted five mornings waiting for the appearance of your mysterious supervisor. In such a well-run business, such an absence usually would incite disorganization and sloppiness, none of which I have witnessed. Ipso facto, you have lied to me, and were under the false assumption that I would lose interest and give up my pursuit when your 'manager' did not arrive."

A small grease spot on the pastry window suddenly seemed very interesting to Bard. He took a small rag to it, rubbing idly.  "I'll take that as a compliment."  

"It was not intended as one."

"I know.  But you're either giving me a backhanded compliment," Bard paused, set aside the rag very deliberately, and rested his forearms on the top of the pastry display, leaning forward, "or you're flirting with me.  Because I think you're too sharp to mistake me for a manager, and you've certainly been watching me closely enough to discern the difference."

And instead of backing off like Bard had expected-- instead of a verbal backpedaling, a refutation of any flirtatious overtones, a dismissal that his obviously disinterested investigations were anything more than the pursuit of his dry cleaning bill-- Thranduil rested a single finger on the glass of the pastry display, studying a cream-topped strawberry shortcake for a moment.  "If I were flirting with you, Bard," he said slowly, "you would know it."  

The feeling this declaration left Bard with was not unlike good heady Irish coffee.  Any chance at a coherent reply, however, was plucked from his grasp when he heard Sigrid's hesitant "uh, dad?" from his left.

He pushed himself off the pastry display with a haste that he only managed to half-convince himself was not guilt.  They had more customers, and Bard had not even noticed. 

"I think it's working," he told Sigrid a couple minutes later in a lull between an order for a caramel macchiato (which they didn’t even serve; Laketown Coffeehouse was not a Starbucks) and a foam-topped dark roast.

"What’s working?"

"Your idea. Giving Thranduil a hard time."

A blank look.  Bard rolled his eyes. "Operation Seduction." The air quotes were not needed.

"Oh, that."  Sigrid deftly handed off change to a teenager and slid the cash register shut.  "It's definitely working.  But at this point I can't tell who it's working for most."

Bard stole a small glance to Thranduil, sitting at the far table, his plain cappuccino steaming away quietly on the edge of the table.  "What do you mean?"  He met Sigrid's raised eyebrows with a pair of his own.  The expression was something she had most certainly inherited from him.

"I mean that you wouldn't be gazing at him dreamily every time we have a break from orders if you weren't at least a little bit attracted to him."

Since Bard was obviously not about to start the order the teenager had placed, Sigrid bustled behind him and filled it herself.  Bard folded his arms and watched her, and gave the teenager a glare when he wandered a bit too close to the counter and into eavesdropping territory.  

"Anyone would stare at someone who dresses as opulently as he does." The defense sounded as patently false to Sigrid as it did to Bard.

"You didn't put up much of a fight when I suggested a game of flirt-chicken to scare him into backing off," she pointed out.

Bard unfolded his arms and muttered, "Touche."

* * *

Initially, Bard had calculated that it would take Thranduil at least a week to lose interest in pursuing his dry cleaning bill.  Monday morning was the one-week-mark, and it dawned bright, sunlight slanting through the huge double windows of the storefront and illuminating the dust motes in the air.  This, however, was the single good thing about the morning, for Alfrid had finally returned. 

“ _Alfrid!_   Where the _hell_ have you been?”  On a good day, Bard would not address Alfrid so crossly, but days when Alfrid showed up were never good.  “You have caused me no end of trouble this past week.”

“Can’t see as how I’ve been causing you trouble if I ain’t been here,” the man muttered, pulling down his apron from a shelf in the office.  It was oily and stained and likely hadn’t been washed in the duration of Alfrid’s tenure at the Laketown Coffeehouse.  Bard took up station at the doorway, boxing him in. 

Warily, Bard eyed the camera that the Master had installed in the upper corner of the office.  He was standing just outside its line of sight.  “I have a difficult customer who has been demanding to see the manager every day this week.  Imagine his annoyance when I have to tell him over and over that you aren’t here.”

Alfrid balked, as Bard had expected.  His hands fumbled with the ties of his apron as he made a feeble attempt at intimidation.

“Not my problem.  When you’re here, _you’re_ the manager-in-absentia.  The Master’s orders.”

“Do you even know what _in absentia_ means, Alfrid?” Bard asked levelly.

“Yeah. It means he ain’t my problem.” 

“Not so fast,” Bard murmured as Alfrid barged past him.  He followed him into the front, where Thranduil was waiting patiently at the counter.  Speak of the devil.     

"That's him," Bard pointed out, eager to have this week-long debacle concluded. The dry cleaner's bill be damned.  Thranduil was becoming too much of a distraction from his already hectic job, in more ways than one, and if one hundred twenty-six dollars was the price he would have to pay for that reprieve, so be it. He was sure he could drum up the money from _somewhere._

Alfrid sidled his way to the register, ignoring Thranduil.  This was just as well, for Thranduil seemed to be ignoring Alfrid as well.  "Is this your manager?" Thranduil asked Bard.

"Unfortunately," Bard gritted out, loud enough for Thranduil to hear but not so loud for Alfrid to pick up.  His manager looked up sharply from the register and narrowed his beady eyes at him.  It seemed Bard had misjudged his volume.   

Alfrid finally looked up.  His pride had been wounded, and Bard had never before met a man so prepared to defend so little dignity.  "I am the manager of Laketown Coffeehouse. Can I help you with something? Sir?" Alfrid purred to Thranduil.

"You can," Thranduil drawled back.  Bard fancied that he detected an undercurrent of sarcasm.  He clenched his teeth once more, waiting for the subject of the dry cleaning bill to drop.  

"I have been waiting here for several minutes. I need a venti soy latte, triple espresso extra hot, two sugars, no whip. To stay."  

"Serve the man, Bard."  Alfrid flicked his hand vaguely in the direction of the coffee machines, returning to his perusal of the cash drawer.  

Puzzled, Bard's eyebrows drew together.  "Are you sure that's what you want to order?" he asked warily.

Thranduil gazed back, entirely nonplussed.  "Shall I repeat it for you?"

"Ah, no." After a couple false starts, Bard managed to overcome his surprise and convince his feet to work again.  "Just a moment."  

* * *

Before he left, Thranduil returned to the counter and slipped something into the tip jar.  Bard was busy whipping up some foam and was only able to catch him do it out of the corner of his eye.  When he handed the foamy monstrosity off to the soccer mom who had ordered it, he carefully turned his attention to the tip jar, casting a glance behind him to ensure Alfrid was firmly ensconced in his office before unscrewing the perforated lid.  A business card lay innocently among loose singles and dimes.  It read: 

THRANDUIL OROPHERION  
Professional Urban Landscaping  
landscape@oropherionandson.com  
617-888-2533

He flipped it between his fingers.  A second phone number was written on the back in spiky penmanship.  Sigrid was no slouch, but she had to strain her neck on tippy-tip-toes to peer over Bard’s shoulder. “Did he give you his  _number_?”

Bard wiped the smirk off his mouth with the same care that he would have cleaned a coffee spill before he turned around. “I believe he did,” he said, unable to keep a touch of amazement out of his voice.

“Can I say ‘I told you so’ now? Because I  _so_  told you so.”

Bard slipped the card into his jeans pocket, underneath is apron. No chance of accidentally leaving it behind in the shop that way.

“Are you gonna call him?”

“Well, I did ruin his suit,” Bard mused. “The least I can do is take him out to dinner.”   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As mentioned previously, I haven't written Barduil in nearly nine months. In my mind, much of my rusty characterization can probably be excused in the context of a coffeeshop!au, but in any case. Don't judge too harshly.


End file.
